Paper Flowers
by Shtuff
Summary: Clint and Natasha, in glimpses and moments. Drabble series for the 30 Days of Writing Challenge on tumblr.
1. Beginning

**Hello, folks. So I have decided to attempt the 30 Days of Writing Challenge on tumblr. Providing I say on track, this should mean a drabble a day throughout the month of July. Heh. We'll see how this goes. **

** Anyway, I hope you all enjoy these little Clint/Natasha moments. The title of this series (for the one person out there who might care) is from Paper Flowers Never Die by E for Explosion. You should definitely give it a listen sometime. **

**Feedback is better than chocolate and always appreciated. **

**Peace. **

* * *

**Beginning**

* * *

Her hands clench into fists as she stares down the barrel of a gun into blue, blue eyes. She's lost, but there is still pride swelling in her chest because she forced him, this sniper who favors the shadows, out into the open. She's stripped him of his lofty perches and his fancy weapons. She's bloodied and bruised him and made it _personal. _

That means she gets to die with a little dignity, at least.

He's smirking at her with his red-stained mouth. There's one bullet left in the gun and in this old, abandoned warehouse they've come down to the end of everything. But still he smiles and his blue eyes flash. It looks like gloating, which should set her nerves on fire with anger, but there's a strange kind of respect in his gaze that she doesn't understand.

"Finish it," she still snaps and lifts her chin in defiance. She will die as she's lived—on her feet staring down those who would try to destroy her.

"How would you like a job?" The stranger says in fluent Russian. He's still aiming the gun at her forehead in a perfect kill shot, but some of the tension evaporates after the casual question.

She stares at him with barely-concealed confusion, wondering if that last blow she managed to land did more damage than she had first anticipated. "What?"

"I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division in America," the sniper continues, "and we could use someone with your skills."

"That's a terrible name for an organization," she says flatly to mask her lingering surprise. Maybe he's toying with her? No. There is nothing but sincerity in that ridiculously blue gaze, and perhaps that is the most frightening thing of all.

The corner of the sniper's mouth lifts in another good-natured, almost gentle smile. "You can call it S.H.I.E.L.D."

"I know who you are." She has heard of S.H.I.E.L.D, knew they were coming for her, but looking at the man who bested her, she realizes she underestimated them. In more ways than one.

"Then you should come work for us. The pay isn't that great, I'll admit, but you get some nice bonuses and all the cool weapons you could ask for." His eyes say what his mouth doesn't: that she'll be free, that she'll have a place to belong, that she'll be able to stop running for her life.

They are empty promises, but he's still giving them to her. He is offering mercy in a place where mercy doesn't belong. That either makes him foolish or incredible and she can't decide which.

He lowers the gun to his side and extends a hand, smiling that oddly affectionate, easy smile that throws her off balance even more than his show of trust. "I'm Clint Barton."

Clint Barton—a killer with manners and a penchant for mercy. She doesn't think she's ever met anyone like him and he _fascinates _her. That, more than anything, is what guides her feet forward. She wants to live, yes—is a survivor above everything else—but nor is she afraid of death. Her life, for as long as she can remember, has been about death in one form or another.

She is used to death, but Clint Barton sparks with _life _in a way that's overwhelming.

She grasps his hand and it's like an electric current running up her arm. "I'm Natasha Romanoff."

Barton grins at her and shakes her hand as though they're strangers bumping into each other on the street. "It's nice to meet you, Natasha Romanoff."

She thinks he might actually mean it.

When he steps back and drops her hand, her skin feels colder than she remembers it being in a long time. Then he's talking to someone over his headset as he holsters his gun and wipes blood off his cheek with the back of a gloved hand.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Coulson. Mission complete. No, I didn't kill her, I offered her a job …" He pauses and a grimace steals over his face. She watches with carefully composed interest. "Yes, I'm aware I wasn't authorized to do that." Another easy smile thrown in her direction—like he's sharing some kind of private joke with her. "But we want her, Coulson. Really. She'll be a great asset. … just meet her, okay? See what she can do … good. I'll bring her."

He spins back to face her—all blood and bruises and too blue eyes that stare right into her soul. "Coulson wants to meet you. He can be a little … _touchy, _but he's a big softie, somewhere underneath it all. You can handle him."

He's fascinating. Completely and utterly _fascinating_.

"You coming, Natasha Romanoff?"

She should refuse him. He could be leading her into a trap—more imprisonment, more enslavement, more being unmade. But she isn't afraid of death and Clint Barton is far too interesting to let go of yet. He has brought her to the end of everything and she thinks she might be ready for a change.

So she nods and follows Barton out of the warehouse and into her future.


	2. Accusation

**Wow. It is weird writing in the AM. That, like, never happens to me. Unless it's an ungodly hour in the morning that is. **

**But I digress. Thank you all for your feedback and enjoy day two! **

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**Accusation**

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None of his fellow agents speak a word against him in the wake of Loki and New York, but he can still see the accusation in their eyes—the questions they want to ask him. Like: _how could you let that happen to you? _And: _didn't you try to fight it? _Or: _how can you expect us to trust you again? _

He hates it, but he can never blame them for it because those questions and accusations linger in his own mind, taunting him. So he avoids them and keeps to himself. Everyone needs time to grieve and it won't help for them to have the killer of their friends in their midst.

A part of him not completely consumed with guilt whispers to him that he's hiding from the world like a coward, but he tells it to shut up as he slips from bed. The hallways of the helicarrier are still brightly lit, even in the middle of the night, so he hugs the walls as he winds his way toward the training room, hoping he won't run into anyone else.

Thankfully he doesn't and the darkened training room is empty when he arrives. He breathes a broken sigh of relief, closes the door behind him, and attacks one of the punching bags with a ferocity that would have surprised him once. Now, he is desperate to forget, to empty his mind until he stops questioning whether his body and thoughts still belong to him, until the feeling of violation finally fades away.

Soon his knuckles are bloody and bruised but he doesn't stop. Maybe if he spills enough of his own blood, it will somehow atone for everyone else's.

Punch. _How could let that happen to you? _

Punch. Kick. Gasp. _Didn't you try to fight it? _

Punch. Punch. Crack. Gasp. _How can you expect us to trust you again? _

He ignores the pain in his hand and keeps hitting the bag. Blood drips to the floor and words careen through his mind. _Weak. Compromised. Traitor. Puppet. __**Worthless. **_

As lost as he is in the maelstrom of his own mind, it takes a precious few moments to register the hand on his shoulder. He whirls, lashing out on instinct, and starts when his blow meets empty air. Blinking away some of the fog he'd fallen into, he frowns when he sees Natasha regarding him coolly and guilt floods him as he remembers pressing a knife to her throat.

She's the person he's been avoiding the most.

"I think you broke your hand," is the first thing she says.

He blinks down at his bloody, mangled right hand and nods. It's pleasantly numb now, but he knows that will change once the last of the adrenaline wears off.

Natasha's fingers are cool against his flushed, sweaty skin, and he flinches before he can stop himself. Something sad and understanding flickers through Natasha's gaze.

"You're an idiot," she continues as she cradles his damaged hand. "How is this helping?"

_It isn't, _he wants to say but the words get stuck in his throat.

"C'mon," she sighs softly, dropping his hand and motioning for him to follow her, "let's get you cleaned up."

He's silent during the walk back to her quarters and when she expertly bandages his hands, muttering under her breath in Russian about how reckless and stupid he is while she does. It isn't until she sits on her bed next to him that the words finally break free and tumble out into the open.

"I can't look them in the eye, Nat. They all hate me. I killed their comrades, I _betrayed _them, so how can they ever look at me the same way? I'm a traitor now and that will never change. No one will ever trust me again and I can't _stay _here—not when I've been compromised like this. It would be better for everyone if I just handed in my—"

"Stop it." Her voice is firm, but it's the undercurrents of desperation that make him clamp his lips together and halt the rush of words.

Her hands frame his face, then, cupping his cheek, and he finds himself looking into warm eyes. "_I _don't blame you, Clint. And everyone else doesn't matter."

It sounds a little ridiculous, but Clint realizes that it's the truth. _She's_ the only one that _really_ matters and it's been that way from the moment they crossed weapons and fists in Eastern Europe. His vision blurs with what he thinks must be tears, but before he can wipe them away—horrified at his own weakness—she wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder.

Her arms are strong and bracing around him, enough to keep him from falling, and when he clings to her in return some of the guilt begins to ease its vice grip on his soul.

Healing will still take time, but this is a start.


	3. Restless

**Thank you so much for all your wonderful feedback! Enjoy day three. Sorry it's short, but quality over quantity, right? **

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**Restless**

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Natasha paces, back and forth, back and forth from one end of the room to the other with such intensity it makes Clint's head hurt.

"Stop it," he grumbles, adjusting the blankets on the narrow hospital bed, "you're not helping the concussion. And you should be in bed anyway."

"My _arm _is hurt," Natasha snaps, passing by his bed again on her way to the left side of the room. "There's nothing wrong with my legs."

"Clearly," Clint mutters and curls up, deciding not to watch her anymore.

"I _hate _hospitals," she continues without prompting and the tension in her voice gives him pause. He lifts his head enough to see that she's stopped pacing and the nails of her good hand are digging into her palm. The florescent lights and the stark white of her hospital robe set her hair on fire, but wash out her skin.

She looks pale and vulnerable—flayed open.

"Why?" Clint murmurs, forcing himself into a sitting position and ignoring the way his battered body twinges loudly in protest.

He is never, ever, going to shoot an exploding arrow from such close range again. Screw desperation.

Natasha stares at him with haunted eyes. "Bad memories."

He supposes he can understand, a little. He's not a fan of hospitals either. They smell like death and grief and loss and blood. It's oppressive. But there's more than that simple aversion in Natasha's gaze. He thinks briefly about pressing further, but decides against it. He doesn't want to break the trust he's so painstakingly built with her.

Instead, he holds out a hand, motioning her toward the bed. "C'mon, then. Pile on. Daytime television is great for chasing away bad memories."

She arches an eyebrow suspiciously, but nevertheless approaches the bed. He shifts until he's on the far side, giving her enough room to lie down next to him. The nurses will yell if they come in and find them sharing a bed, but he doesn't really care. There isn't much they can threaten either of them with, anyway.

So he presses comfortably up against Natasha, enjoying the way the warmth of her body chases away some of the chilled hospital air, and flicks on the TV. They flip channels until they land on a truly horrifying soap opera, complete with one-dimensional characters, melodramatic plot, and cliché lines.

It's perfect.

Halfway in, Natasha has begun to relax and he catches her smirking at the television out of the corner of his eye. The mission and the blood and the close calls slowly are fading away. By the time the episode is over, she's fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hair fanned out against his neck. He shifts enough to rest his cheek on the top of her head and lets his heavy eyelids slip shut.

His sleeps and doesn't dream.


	4. Snowflake

**Thank you all for your continued feedback! Enjoy day cuatro. **

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**Snowflake**

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"You're ridiculous," Natasha declares, crossing her arms and glaring half-heartedly at her teammate.

Clint spins in circles outside their safe house, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue. He pauses long enough to shrug at her before returning to his antics. "It's not like there's anything else to do out here."

Natasha sighs and glances up at the towering mountains, admitting that he might be right. They have several hours before the retrieval team arrives to fly them to their next mission and there is little to amuse them in the tiny one bedroom cabin at her back. Still, that does not mean gross unprofessional behavior is warranted.

"You look like an idiot," she gripes, leaning back against the rough cabin wall.

Six months of fighting at his side and she still doesn't understand Clint Barton. He seems to swing from one extreme to another—complete seriousness when on assignment and childish ridiculous when off duty. It's enough to make her head spin.

He never fails to make her laugh, though, and maybe that's the most unsettling thing.

"What do you want to do, then?" Clint asks, still spinning with his head craned up toward the sky. "Build snowmen?" He stops suddenly, glancing at her with a slowly widening grin.

"No," Natasha snaps because she knows that look. Clint is about to suggest something stupid and unprofessional and then keep staring at her until she gets unsettled enough to agree.

"C'mon. A snowman would be awesome. We could give him armor and everything."

"What are you, five? I'm _not _building a snowman with you. We're supposed to be resting and waiting for the retrieval team, not frolicking around in the snow like—_what?" _She demands when Clint starts snickering.

"Sorry." He waves a hand, trying to rein in his laughter. "Frolicking just provokes a lot of mental images." He dissolves into giggles again and Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes.

"You're such a child," she says with an aloof huff.

Clint shakes his head. "And what are you, eighty? C'mon, Nat, live a little."

Nat. That's another thing she can't understand. She's never been called _Nat _in her life and yet Clint keeps using the nickname no matter how hard she glares at him. If she persists enough she can sometimes get him to "compromise" by switching to Tasha. It's infuriating and leaves a warm feeling in her chest that she hates.

"For the last time, I'm not building a snowman with you." She tries to keep her voice firm and her inner conflict that always rages around Clint safely hidden.

Clint stares.

"Not happening, Barton."

More staring. An arched eyebrow.

"Stop that. Puppy dog eyes won't work, either, and you know it."

Head tilted. _More _staring. And she's starting to…

"Fine." It's a muttered grumble but Clint grins brightly at her anyway. That same easy smile he gave her in Eastern Europe. With an exasperated sigh to mask the own grin tugging at her lips, she throws her shoulders back and marches toward him.

Twenty minutes later, they have a snowman—complete with stones for eyes and buttons, branch arms, a carrot nose, her scarf, and Clint's hat. It's a little lopsided and on the sad side, but for someone who has never built a snowman before Natasha figures she did all right.

"What should we call him?" Clint asks her as he adjusts the hat.

Natasha arches an eyebrow at that. "He has to have a name?"

"Yeah. And not something cliché like Frosty."

She frowns, mulling that over. She has no idea what an appropriate name for a snowman is. But, there was this one rather ridiculous Russian she remembers dealing with several years back. "How about … Bogdan."

"_Bogdan?" _Clint questions, giving her a quizzical look.

She shrugs. "It's different from Frosty, right?"

Turning back to the snowman, he smirks slightly. "Right. Bogdan it is."

Natasha tries not to smile.

Coulson arches an eyebrow when he spots their snowman standing proudly in front of the safe house several hours later, but thankfully doesn't comment.

Not that he needs to. She can sense his disapproval like a physical thing, even if most of it is directed at Barton. Ducking her head, she lets her lips quirk up in a private smile, especially when Clint ignores Coulson's staring and gives Bogdan a hearty wave.


	5. Haze

**Hello, all. Thank you everyone for your lovely feedback. I present to you day five. I'm sorry it's a bit rushed but I've been busy today getting ready for a trip and had to pull this together last minute. **

**Enjoy. And, day six, prepared to be conquered. **

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**Haze**

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_I'm dying, _he thinks brokenly as he struggles to draw air into his screaming lungs. His mouth is full of blood and he can feel it seeping out of his wounds and onto the rough ground beneath him—hot as it slides across his skin.

With a pained groan, he presses his back against the concrete wall behind him and manages to sit a few more inches upright. This new position is slightly less painful, but soon it won't matter. He's already beginning to go numb—blackness bleeding into the corners of his vision like greedy fingers.

_I'm dying. _

He's not sure how many times he's thought that over the years, but it's only a few. Usually he looks back and thinks, _I almost died, _but this is different. This time he _knows _right here, right now, as it's happening. He can feel the life leaving his veins and cold emptiness filling him in its wake. In the distance, gunfire echoes like thunder and he hopes that somewhere out there, his teammates are winning.

Storming a heavily fortified Russian prison to reclaim a valuable asset might not have been the best idea S.H.I.E.L.D has ever had, but he's always understood the need for crazy recklessness every now and then. It gets the job done and besides, the asset isn't just important, it's _Natasha. _For Natasha he thinks he might attempt to move heaven and earth itself and isn't that a strange thought. That one person could mean so much to him—it's incredible and horrifying all at once.

Coulson will never know, he's sure of that. If he does he'd just get that disappointed look on his face (it looks just like all his other expressions except his mouth turns down a bit more at the corners) and prattle on about Clint being compromised and stupid and then promptly transfer him away so he can never come within ten miles of Natasha ever again. Picturing the whole ridiculous scenario, he feels a laugh welling in his chest. It slips cracked and hoarse from his lips and some blood escapes with it, trickling down his chin.

_I'm dying. _

He wonders if he's supposed to be scared. He isn't. Everything is blissfully numb, drowning beneath the haze that continues to seep in from all sides. He's always pictured dying as something terrifying and brief—one painful shot or blast or hit and your life is snuffed out like a candle—but this is slow and almost peaceful.

He just wishes he wasn't alone.

He's never minded being along—usually prefers it—but not now. Now he wants someone to sit beside him and hold his hand and tell him that there's something good waiting on the other side. And if the person he wants the most happens to have red hair and stunning hazel eyes, then who's to know?

A cough rattles through him, jerking his body forward slightly and sending more blood splattering to the ground. He's growing weaker, can barely lift his arm to wipe away the blood, and it won't be long now.

He hopes Natasha is safe. He hopes they make it out alive. He's sorry that he didn't get a chance to say good-bye (though he is a little glad that he doesn't have to think up good last words along with everything else) but he hopes she understands.

Something moves in the corner of his blurry vision and he twists his head slightly to get a better look. For a moment, it appears to be a dancing flame, weaving closer to him, and he stares, hypnotized. Then, the flame looms over him and warm hands cup his face. Someone is shouting at him, sounding very far away. He thrashes in the grip of the haze, struggling to focus.

At last a few words seep through. Words like: "_Clint," _and "_hang on," _and "_stay," _and _"please." _It sounds like Natasha and as he blinks up at the red blur, the haze clears enough for him to get a glimpse of her face.

She looks more frantic than he's ever seen her, even when she thought she was going to die, and her eyes seem wet but he tells himself that's a trick of the light. Natasha Romanoff doesn't cry.

He tries to say her name, but it gets lost in all the blood. She pushes his bangs off his forehead and keeps talking, repeating those jumbled words over and over. The haze is persistent, ready to drag him back under, but he knows what she's asking of him. She wants him to fight, to stay with her, to _live. _If it were anyone else, he doesn't think he'd have the strength, but this is Natasha and for her he would move heaven and earth itself.

So when the blackness finally rushes in, pulling him away, he fights it long enough to grip her hand and squeeze it in silent reassurance.

He won't let the haze of death take him. Not today.


	6. Flame

**A huge thank to everyone who has reviewed so far. You're all lovely. I fell a day behind because of traveling and illness, so you get two drabbles tonight. Hopefully that will make up for how painfully short they are. **

**This one is a direct follow-up to Haze. **

**Feedback is still greatly appreciated. Enjoy. **

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**Flame**

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Clint looks too pale and still in the hospital bed—hooked up to a dozen obnoxiously beeping machines. It's painful to look at him and she doesn't want to acknowledge the bandages or the blood she can still feel on her hands. That would mean acknowledging that for one, terrifying moment she thought she was going to lose him. That would mean acknowledging how devastated the idea of life without Clint left her.

She rubs her hands together and shifts in the hard plastic chair by Clint's bedside. Coulson is expecting a debriefing report from her but he can wait.

It's cold in the little hospital room and Natasha finds herself missing Clint's warmth. He's always burned hot and bright in her life—like her own personal flame, impossible to ignore. Sometimes, the intensity is searing and too much for her chilled, stone heart to handle and so she retreats. But she's always known the warmth is waiting for her whenever she decides to return.

This time is different. This time it, _he, _was wrenched from her, leaving her shocked and shivering, and she hates it. It makes her weak, but she's realizing that she's too far gone to change that now.

She stares at Clint, wondering if she holds her gaze long enough, he'll wake up and crack some joke about her being obsessed with him for staring so much. Nothing happens and she sighs in sharp frustration.

"You're irritating," she tells him, wrapping her hands around her knees, "and stupid."

Because he came after her when he _shouldn't _have. He risked his life to save hers and he was never supposed to do that.

"Wake up," she says next, leaning over to gently nudge his arm with her hand. "I'm cold and you look like a corpse. It's not attractive."

Nothing happens.

She ignores the sinking feeling in her chest and shifts so that she can rest her head on the bed, near his arm. His skin is cold, too, and that isn't right. She takes his hand and begins to rub warmth into it, moving on instinct more than anything else.

He's the fire. He should be warm. The ice and the cold is _her _job.

Trapped between her palms, his fingers twitch slightly and then curl toward hers, seeking the warmth. She glances at his face, but his eyes remain closed.

Still, with his hand cradled in hers and warmth seeping between them, she feels hope burn hot and bright, like a fire in her chest.


	7. Formal

**Finally moving out of the angst and Clint-being-unconscious territory. **

* * *

**Formal**

* * *

Clint taps his foot impatiently, glaring at the closed door of Natasha's hotel room with the vague hope that it will somehow make her move faster. They're going to be late to the party at this rate and the last thing they want to do is cause a scene.

"What's taking so long?" he grumbles to himself.

Honestly, this is Natasha, and she's not girly in the slightest. It shouldn't take her of all people hours to get ready.

The sound of the door unlocking startles him out of his contemplation and he spins to face it just in time to see Natasha stepping into the hallway. All the air leaves his lungs in a rush because her hair is piled up on her head, she's wearing makeup, and her black formal dress is stunning.

She looks absolutely gorgeous.

He opens his mouth to tell her so but the words die in his throat. She arches an eyebrow at him, taking in his suit and carefully styled hair.

"You clean up well," she remarks dryly and he feels a momentary spark of irritation that she can be so calm when he's so flustered.

"You too," he says and is proud that his voice sounds normal and casual while uttering what has to be the understatement of the century. They're not supposed to cause a scene at the party but he thinks that she's going to be turning every head.

"Let's get this over with." She holds out her arm and he takes the cue, looping his arm through hers so he can escort her.

As she glides along beside him toward the elevator, he steals another glance at her and promises to himself that someday he is going to tell her how beautiful she is.


End file.
